


With Love Waiting Outside the Door

by ilookedback



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, a little bit of drinking, a little bit of kissing, soft n sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26037925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: You wait outside his office building, enjoying the summer sunshine on your face, and eventually you hear his voice,hey, warm and pleased with surprise at seeing you there. He’s stopped in front of you with his coworker, a woman you’ve met a few times before.“What are you doing here?” he asks, and you tell him, “I’m kidnapping you.”“Kidnapping a federal agent is a serious crime,” his coworker jokes. She settles her hand on the cuffs at her belt. “You need me to arrest her?”He grins, a little sly, and says, “I’ve got my own handcuffs, I think I can handle her.” She laughs and gives you a nod goodbye and continues her way inside, leaving you alone. He settles his hips against yours, leaning together against the concrete ledge by the building steps, and gives you a sweet kiss.(Written for this request from yespolkadotkitty on tumblr:you surprising him with an arty date - like an indie band you've found out he's into, or a showing for a niche painter.)
Relationships: Marcus Pike/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	With Love Waiting Outside the Door

**Author's Note:**

> Just a sweet little something. Unbetaed. Title is from The Damnwells.

You wait outside his office building, enjoying the summer sunshine on your face, and eventually you hear his voice, _hey_ , warm and pleased with surprise at seeing you there. He’s stopped in front of you with his coworker, a woman you’ve met a few times before.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and you tell him, “I’m kidnapping you.”

“Kidnapping a federal agent is a serious crime,” his coworker jokes. She settles her hand on the cuffs at her belt. “You need me to arrest her?”

He grins, a little sly, and says, “I’ve got my own handcuffs, I think I can handle her.” She laughs and gives you a nod goodbye and continues her way inside, leaving you alone. He settles his hips against yours, leaning together against the concrete ledge by the building steps, and gives you a sweet kiss.

“I need to go inside to pack up a couple of things and put away my files before I can take off. You want to come in?”

Normally you might—you like seeing where he works, the intimate view of how he keeps his desk—but getting through security feels like slightly more hassle than it’s worth when the weather is so nice outside and he’s only going to be a few minutes, anyway.

“I’ll wait out here. You’re a little overdressed, though. You have some civvies you can change into?”

He narrows his eyes, studying you and thinking about it. “How overdressed are we talking? I have workout clothes and I have a pair of jeans, I think.”

“Wear the jeans. I brought you these.” You hand him the bag you’ve been carrying, which has a pair of his nicer sneakers in it. Weekend shoes you’ve snagged from his closet.

He tilts his head again, suspicious, but he takes the bag and gives you another brief kiss and heads inside while you wait, warm and content with the late afternoon sun on your skin.

Eventually you tell him you’re taking him to a concert, and he wheedles at you a little bit over dinner, trying to find out who’s playing.

“Is it ABBA?” he asks. You raise an eyebrow and say nothing. “If it is, you have to tell me because I’ve got this sequined jumpsuit at home—”

That makes you laugh and he grins, triumphant.

“It’s a surprise,” you insist. “I promise you’ll like it.”

So he settles back and eats his dinner and graciously lets you share the fries on his plate while he tells you about his day. There’s time to kill before the show so you order a second cocktail and let the world around you go a little fuzzy as you focus on his voice and his warm eyes and his graceful fingers, gesturing to illustrate a story. And he keeps watching you with that playful-suspicious look, like he’s suppressing his FBI agent nature here to stop trying to work out what you’ve got in store.

When you finally reach the block of the venue and he sees the band’s name on the marquee he stops stock-still and his face is as surprised as you’ve ever seen it. You feel a rush of victory, maybe a little smug even. “Are you serious?” he says. “I didn’t even think they were still together.”

“It’s a reunion show,” you tell him. “I saw a poster for it and I remembered you liked them.”

“Shit,” he says, with feeling. “How did you even…? I don’t remember telling you about them. I was kind of obsessed with their music in the ‘90s.”

“Yeah,” you say. “You have like ten of their CDs in your collection. I figured it out.”

He narrows his eyes at you again, playfully. “I think you’re spending too much time with me. You’ve turned into some kind of a detective.”

“I know.” You nod solemnly. “After I bought the tickets, I solved the Gardner Museum heist. You should probably retire at this point.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s too clearly delighted for it to have any effect. “Okay, that reference definitely means you’re spending too much time with me.”

“Never,” you protest, and you wrap your arm around his waist and lean into his side and listen as he eagerly tells you about the summer in college he and his buddy followed this band on tour for two weeks straight.

It’s not your favorite music, but it’s good, and it’s made better by your front row view of his reaction to it, how his eyes go wide and bright and young like he’s 22 again. He puts his soul into the things he loves instead of hiding his enthusiasm and you see that now in the emotion on his face when a lyric hits home—you feel it unexpectedly, too, a ball of emotion that builds in your throat and then settles warm in your chest as he wraps his arm around you and plays his fingers along your hip like the chords on his old bass guitar. A slower song comes on, and the singer’s voice is age-roughened and raspy at the edges, but there’s this pure clear tone at the center of it and you think, maybe this is your favorite so far.

He pulls you in close to his chest and tilts his head against yours, swaying to the slow beat, fingers still tapping at your hip along to the brushed out rhythm of the ride cymbal. You turn your head to see his face again and he’s got his eyes closed, but he opens them gradually to look at you and a broad smile spreads over his face. He is all cheek dimple and eye crinkles and bright, sweet feeling, and you grin back at him and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“You like it?” he asks, nodding his head to the band on stage.

“Yeah,” you tell him, eyes still steady on his face, drinking him in. You tangle your fingers with his, squeezing his hand, and turn into him further so you can kiss him properly. “It’s really good.”


End file.
